‘But he was a regular?’
‘Oh aye. He’d sit through in the public. Quiet in the corner. Never any bother. Kept his hat doon. Didnae want folk to see his face. Nae wonder. My wife couldnae handle it. I had to serve him.’
Now came the hard questions. ‘Did he ever talk to anyone? Any friends?’
He shook his head. ‘No’ what you’d call friends exactly.’
‘Fill me up. Will you take one yourself?’ I pushed my glass over to him.
‘I’ll put one in the tank. A wee goldie. For later. Thanks.’
‘But he had some acquaintances?’
He leaned even closer. ‘There’s always guys selling stuff roon’ here.’ He tapped his nose.
‘What sort of stuff? Fags? Meat…?’
‘A’ that. But if you want something special…’ He drew himself back. ‘Anyroad, I’ve telt you enough. I don’t know you from Adam.’
‘Fair enough, friend,’ I said. ‘But look, I’ve got a wee habit of my own. D’ye ken what I’m saying?’ I tapped the inside of my arm. ‘If you know anywhere I can get hold of some stuff, I’d make it worth your while.’ I took out a ten-bob note and laid it on the counter. ‘That’s for the pie and your own drink. Keep the change.’ I made to go.
‘Hing on, pal.’ He signed me to come closer. ‘If you can wait till the morn’s night, there might be somebody who can help. Different nights, different pubs. He comes by here on a Thursday. Regular as the coalman. About seven. OK?’ He gave me the heaviest wink I’d seen since Max Wall at the Windmill.
I did my best to return the wink and went looking for Hugh’s other pub in case it was its turn to be visited tonight. If I had no luck there I could come to the Mally Arms tomorrow night for a pie and a hit.
Doyle’s bar at Gorbals Cross was scarcely more salubrious. But the clientele seemed less likely to fall down with consumption. The beer seemed less watered too. Maybe there was a connection. I decided to play this differently. People are always ready to talk to you in Scotland. Strangers will wish you a good morning so they can comment on the weather before getting on to the important stuff like football. Women will strike up an intimate discussion about varicose veins on the bus with perfect strangers. Put that same propensity in a pub, add alcohol and time on their hands, and you’ll get their life story in a flash.
It was just after seven o’clock and I gazed through the fug looking for some likely candidates. I discounted the wee men dressed in their shabby work clothes stopping in for a snifter before facing their pale wife. I ignored the tables where there was a steady clack and slide of dominoes. I was looking for someone whose clothes were less frayed and slept in, who slipped round the room stirring the little groups like a breeze through trees, going about his dirty business, eyes swivelling. No one fitted the bill.
I sat down to wait with an abandoned copy of the Daily Record. I read it cover to cover. It didn’t take long. Ink and paper was still at a premium and the Record was down to a dozen pages. So I read it carefully, especially the reports of local crimes, to get a feel for this mean city. Nothing much seemed to have changed since I was last patrolling the streets. The gangs were still in charge of the East End but seemed more organised and less given to mass razor battles just for the fun of it. Chief Constable Percy Sillitoe had taken them on and given them a good hiding in the years before the war. Sillitoe’s Cossacks earned a justly feared respect with their mounted baton charges against rioting Orange marchers. But the gangs hadn’t gone away. They’d metamorphosed into organised criminality; protection rackets their speciality.
Today’s paper reported that internecine feuding had resulted in petrol bombs through windows and three men’s faces being slashed to ribbons in a pub fight. No wonder the police had to be such hard men. There was no quarter asked or given out there. I never had any problem with meeting force with force. It was the only response gangs like the Norman Conks understood and responded to. But the unbridled power assumed by the police led to a widespread cavalier attitude to the application of the rule of law. Some units began offering their own insurance policies against raids by their fellow officers. Others took backhanders to avert their steely gaze from illegal gambling, knocking shops and smuggling through the port. It wasn’t what I joined for. It wouldn’t pull me back. Call me naive.
I turned back to the news. Four men had died at a party in the Blackhill scheme; industrial alcohol had been the drink of choice. A child had gone missing in Govan. I hoped for a happier outcome than for poor Fiona’s wean. And just reading the paper reminded me that I needed to get into the local archives and see the reporting coverage of Hugh’s trial. I wanted to get a feel for the case. It was hard coming at it cold. The newspapers would tell me what we were up against trying to win an appeal. They would also chronicle the police procedure day by day, within the limits of reporting constraints.
I sensed a different current in the bar. I looked up and saw two men sidling up to people, saying a few words, getting a head-shake, and then moving on. Twice a transaction took place. I waited at my table by the wall, half engrossed in the paper. I looked up when a shadow fell across the table. He was young, badly shaven, with crossed, jumpy eyes. He nodded at me.
‘A’right, pal?’
‘Aye, fine. You?’ I asked.
His eyes stopped and focused, sort of. ‘You polis?’
What was it about my personal aroma? ‘Not now. Used to be.’
He looked triumphant. ‘I kent you were polis, sort of. You’re no’ from roon here.’
‘Kilmarnock. But I live in London now. Just visiting a pal.’
‘Oh aye. Need anything while you’re here? A wee set-you-up for your holidays?’
‘What’ve you got?’
He sat down opposite me and lit a fag. ‘Whit do you need?’
‘The same stuff as Hugh Donovan.’
His smile dissolved and his eyes started their St Vitus’s dance again. ‘Who the fuck are you, pal? You are the fucking polis, are ye no?’
‘What would the polis want with you? Donovan’s for hanging. They got what they wanted. I was just reading in here’ – I tapped the paper, certain that my new friend hadn’t been – ‘that he liked a wee hit now and again. It didn’t take too long to work out where he might be getting it. So I thought I’d try out a couple of places round here. Seems I got lucky.’
‘Maybe you are. Maybe you’re not.’ Suspicion had set his body jangling like a plucked harp. He looked round and signalled to his buddy to come over.
His pal was older and steadier. His left ear had a lobe missing and the scar ran on to his cheek. He sat down and inspected me. ‘What’s going on?’
‘This yin’s playing smart, so he is. He’s no’ from around here. Wants the same as Hugh Donovan, so he says.’
‘Does he now. Would that be your face melted or your neck stretched?’
‘That’s a good yin, Fergie.’
‘Shut up.’ Fergie kept his eyes on mine and waited for my reaction.
‘I was thinking more of some pain relief,’ I said rubbing my leg. ‘Shrapnel.’
‘We can make it hurt even more, if you’re pissin’ us around.’
‘Look, if you don’t want the business, forget it. You came to me.’ I studiously picked up my paper and pretended to read. I heard the snick just before I could move. The blade of a flick-knife sliced up through the paper and left it hanging in my hands in two bits.
THIRTEEN
‘You’re not a reader then,’ I said.
‘What do you want? Specifically,’ asked Fergie.
‘The hard stuff, the Big H. What’s your price?’
‘Introductory price is a quid a shot.’
‘Quality?’
‘The best.’
‘How do I know?’
‘You don’t. Until you try it.’
‘Fair enough. One hit.’ I began to dig into my pocket.
‘Not here. In there.’ He jerked his head towards the toilet. He got up and walked towards it expecting me to follow. His crosseyed pal sat grinning at me.